Clive Capital is a private fund management company with a penchant for commodities, and all commodity groups are traded, including: global energies, base metals, precious metals, grains, vegetable oils, agricultural products, soft commodities, meats, and exotics. Unfortunately, it had (has?) money in oil. As we all know, oil crashed like a madman last week. That's why Clive Capital lost $400 million. Maybe more than that. The firm isn't speaking to journalists.
Clive Capital won't even speak to me. Not that I care. I can read people's minds. No one has to speak when I'm around. And I'm always around, somewhere, watching, listening in. See that shadow on the wall? That's me, that is. Feel that soft breeze(?) on your skin? What do you think it is? It ain't the wind, my friend. But don't be alarmed. It's not a haunting. I'm not a ghost. It's an out-of-body experience. It won't last. I'll be off bothering someone else in a minute.
Earlier this morning, I was floating around town, Charles II Street, bothering the Clive Capital folk. Well, to tell you the truth, they didn't notice me. They were too wrapped up in their grief. Lost in it, they were. Which I couldn't understand. And I knew Tony Robbins wouldn't approve, so I tried to change their state. Shadow and breeze, up close. No effect whatsoever. They were like zombies. You can't help some people. You've got to want to change.
I'm trying to change, myself. It's difficult. I've left the desert for good. I rarely hit the astral plane now. I'm trying to be more physical in the world. I'll have to cut down on the floating around. Old habits die hard. And I'm trying to be more positive. Got to stop worrying about death and disaster. There's money to be made. There are blog posts to be written, and songs. Life is worth living. It's beautiful, and sunny, outside. Obviously, not inside. I think I need a holiday. St Ives again, if I can afford it. I have a relation there, a famous ceramicist, Tate Gallery and all that. I've never met him. Francis Bacon stayed in St Ives for a few months, believe it or not, in the late Fifties. It's the light. I've been five times. It's my favourite place in the world. Apologies for the telegram style. Nothing's flowing today. Not even the blood.
Clive Capital won't even speak to me. Not that I care. I can read people's minds. No one has to speak when I'm around. And I'm always around, somewhere, watching, listening in. See that shadow on the wall? That's me, that is. Feel that soft breeze(?) on your skin? What do you think it is? It ain't the wind, my friend. But don't be alarmed. It's not a haunting. I'm not a ghost. It's an out-of-body experience. It won't last. I'll be off bothering someone else in a minute.
Earlier this morning, I was floating around town, Charles II Street, bothering the Clive Capital folk. Well, to tell you the truth, they didn't notice me. They were too wrapped up in their grief. Lost in it, they were. Which I couldn't understand. And I knew Tony Robbins wouldn't approve, so I tried to change their state. Shadow and breeze, up close. No effect whatsoever. They were like zombies. You can't help some people. You've got to want to change.
I'm trying to change, myself. It's difficult. I've left the desert for good. I rarely hit the astral plane now. I'm trying to be more physical in the world. I'll have to cut down on the floating around. Old habits die hard. And I'm trying to be more positive. Got to stop worrying about death and disaster. There's money to be made. There are blog posts to be written, and songs. Life is worth living. It's beautiful, and sunny, outside. Obviously, not inside. I think I need a holiday. St Ives again, if I can afford it. I have a relation there, a famous ceramicist, Tate Gallery and all that. I've never met him. Francis Bacon stayed in St Ives for a few months, believe it or not, in the late Fifties. It's the light. I've been five times. It's my favourite place in the world. Apologies for the telegram style. Nothing's flowing today. Not even the blood.
